her eyes like a copper lamp.

Charlotte also glanced at it. "Why, Richard must have come while you
were over to our house," she said.

"It don't make any odds if he did," returned Sylvia, with a faint
blush and a bridle. Sylvia was much younger than her sister. Standing
there in the dim light she did not look so much older than her niece.
Her figure had the slim angularity and primness which are sometimes
seen in elderly women who are not matrons, and she had donned a
little white lace cap at thirty, but her face had still a delicate
bloom, and the wistful wonder of expression which belongs to youth.

However, she never thought of Charlotte as anything but a child as
compared with herself. Sylvia felt very old, and the more so that she
grudged her years painfully. She stirred up the fire a little,
holding back her shiny black silk skirt carefully. Charlotte stood
leaning against the shelf, looking moodily down at the fire.

"I wouldn't feel bad if I was you, Charlotte," Sylvia ventured,
timidly.

"I guess we'd better go to bed pretty soon," returned Charlotte. "It
must be late."

"Had you rather sleep with me, Charlotte, or sleep in the spare
chamber?"

"I guess I'll go in the spare chamber."